Penance
by Lilarinn
Summary: Ner'zhul has realised the folly of implicating himself and his entire race in the great, dark scheme of Kil'jaeden. He also realises there is no way out of it. One shot, dark themes


The winds once swirled a pattern of whispers to bear his words to his kinsmen and women, brushing their faces as gently as the touch of a beloved friend or relative. But now it was silent, nothing more than cold and abrasive. Ner'zhul despaired, for it was fairly all he could do now.  
Even now, as he stood in the cold night air alone, his clothes and beard battered by the now unfriendly wind, he knew he stood where he stood only because _he_ allowed it - the beautiful one was to be the saviour of the orcs, who was to lead them to victory, glory and indeed, safety from those who sought to destroy them.

Who would give them power beyond measure.  
That part was true. The rest were all lies. The orcs were damned and it was Ner'zhul's fault, for he had let that one in.

Ner'zhul strained to hear the voices in the wind as he once did, but heard nothing. His heart was broken and he didn't know what else to do. Now that Kil'jaeden controlled his movement he knew he had only a short time before he'd be stopped. He never wanted to do this. Indeed, it was considered one of the most terrible things for an orc to do, devoid of nobility, of honour. But Ner'zhul was at his wit's end.

After he discovered the ancestors harboured not relief for his actions against the draenei, but hatred, and that the guidance he thought they gave him was in fact nothing but an elaborate ruse constructed by Kil'jaeden to ensure his compliance in the dark plan, Ner'zhul thought he could feel no worse.  
But with the discovery that his apprentice was now willingly and knowingly prepared to carry out Kil'jaeden's wishes, Ner'zhul felt he'd hit a new low. How he could have been so blind to his apprentice's potential for treachery, he did not know.

And he hated himself, for he knew he could do nothing for the orcs, despite his knowledge and what he'd witnessed, but meekly observe. Such was the nature of the binding silence Kil'jaeden's dark magic had inflicted upon him.

This may be his only chance to flee the being, for if he were to be Kil'jaeden's slave in life, he was damned in the eyes of the ancestors, as there was no way he could hope to undercut the deceptive entity's dark plans now.  
He hoped Kil'jaeden would not stop him, that perhaps there were no further plans for Ner'zhul and would let him go. He could only hope as he placed the leather rope over his head.  
"Ancestors... beloved dead..."  
He knew he shouldn't take time, but he couldn't do it without first offering some words of explanation, in the hope that this would somehow, somehow be enough to redeem him.  
"I know I am dishonoured, indeed I do not deserve to petition you let alone dare hope to stand among you..."  
Ner'zhul's voice trembled.  
"I... I failed you with my stupidity, and I don't dare beg your forgiveness, for I am not worthy for such mercy... I merely hope..."  
Tears slipped down his wind battered cheeks.  
"I merely hope to look upon you again... to listen to your imparting words of wisdom... to those who've become confused in the actions they feel they should take... I would hope our people once again are able to seek such guidance from you, people who are not yet born and do not harbour the blood of innocents on their hands," Ner'zhul coarsely rubbed a wind bitten hand across his damp cheek. "Children... who will come years from now,"

Voice cracking, he trembled and uttered softly, bitterly. "If our people ever find a way out of this hell."  
He realised he had no time to waste lest Kil'jaeden decide not to allow him to go through with it. He secured the robe to the sweeping tree trunk. He stood atop its jutting roots, proudly reaching some feet out of the earth.  
He touched the leathery rope around his neck. It felt good, strong and sturdy, just like the noble animal from which it was borne.

He gingerly let his toes creep to the edge of the roots he stood upon. An eerie sense of calmness was upon him. He gazed down at the earth below, remembered how good it felt to be have the blessing of its strength channel through him. A wave of sadness came over him then, and he knew it would not subside, indeed, never would.  
He couldn't wait any longer.  
He jumped off the roots.

And as soon as he did, he realised he'd done something wrong.  
He choked as the tension from the rope tightened painfully around his neck, but not enough to kill him. Not yet.  
Blearily, he cursed himself. The noose was supposed to break his neck when he jumped, but in his haste he had tied it in such a way that it would instead strangle him to death painfully.

His hands had flown up instinctively to the noose, in an attempt to loosen the restriction around his neck. There was nothing he could do.  
His face felt fit to explode, he felt the air squeezing out of his body slowly, more agonising with every second.  
He felt the world beginning to fade. He knew he would fall unconscious soon. Mercifully, it descended upon him. He felt his hands tingle dully, felt his body becoming numb, vaguely, barely felt the rush of cold winter air against his body, and with a sense of relief he felt himself slipping away, further and further.

And then he felt hands upon him, shouts, cries of anguish.  
He felt hands clamouring on his numb body, grabbing at him frantically.

"Ner'zhul! Ner'zhul!"  
"Oh, help us, get him down!"  
"Quickly, quickly, hurry!"  
"Grab the knife!"  
He felt fingers around his throat, the cool chill of a blade, and suddenly the tightness was gone and he felt himself lying against the cool earth.  
Gradually his vision returned to him.  
Looking around he saw the concerned faces of the Shadowmoon clan shaman.  
"Oh great one, thank the ancestors,"  
His eyes slipped closed once more. Despite still regaining his senses, one thought was upon his mind that was as keen and as sharp as the blade that had cut him from the tree.

He was alive.

And he had failed.


End file.
